


A Matter of Perspective

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Fire and Gunpowder [3]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Awkward Matchmaking Sessions, Developing Relationships, F/M, Fun in a pool, slight sexual tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 01:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4416659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He asks, "Why?"</p>
<p>She replies, "Why not?"</p>
<p>That's when he knows he's really in trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> 3rd installment in the "Fire and Gunpowder" series. Kyle's relationship with his free-spirited charge takes a few unexpected twists and turns.

“There are few things I’m going to apologize for dragging you to.” Anastazia tells him, as they walk a short distance from the parking lot to the sidewalk, towards a small two-story setup downtown with an intricately-carved door and windows decorated with jeweled lace curtains. “ _This_ is one of them.”

He has an inquiring response on his tongue, but it gets swallowed back in a hastily-stifled gag when the door opens and the overpowering aroma of scented candles hit him and hits hard. The source is quickly visible: candles, everywhere, on every shelf and every corner and nearly every inch of every wall. This place is an arson claim just waiting to happen.

The walls are painted a rich color, the furniture antiquated with velvet upholstery, and the floor is carpeted from wall to wall. He follows Anastazia’s lead and takes a seat at the set-up against the far wall, though he sits with a little more decorum than she does, lowering himself calmly to the cushion while she plops down, tosses one leg over the other, and lets her head fall back and over the edge with blonde curls spilling this way and that. She already looks bored, and he suddenly has no difficulties understanding why Araz had to make a public point of mandating her attendance.

“Miss Darbinyan,” a rather nasal tone makes it way around the corner a few short seconds before its owner appears, “I see your atrocious posture has not managed to improve over these past months.”

The matchmaker is a tight-lipped woman with a permanent scowl etched on her face, iron-grey hair piled atop her head in an old-fashioned style, and gives new meaning to the phrase “thin as a rail”. Everything about her is old school, from the hair to the full-length dress with a high-neck and lace trim. She settles into her own seat with posture perfect, smoothing the wrinkles from her lap with a swift swipe, and proceeds to glowers at Anastazia’s choice of attire for the day—shorts, black tights and boots with stiletto heels, and a shirt that, while sporting long sleeves, has its hem cut very short (he suspects she did it herself)—as though each and every thread has personally offended her.

Her glare quickly fixes on him, and her already thin lips suck inward and disappear. She looks as though she swallowed a lemon. “I thought I made myself perfectly clear regarding our sessions, Miss Darbinyan.” She says slowly, jaw locked and lips pursed. “These meetings are intended to find you a suitable partner, and thus no additional males are to be present.”

“Where I go, Mr. Nimbus goes.” Anastazia replies, her tone just as unimpressed. “Deal with it.”

The matchmaker doesn’t deal with it. Thirty minutes later, he’s had to defend his presence five times and it’s starting to get old. He did think to stand at the back and just blend out of sight, but no sooner had he begun to leave the chair than Anastazia’s hand had promptly taken hold of his shirt and jerked him back down in place, completely ignoring the scandalized expression on the other woman’s face. 

Since then, he’s just tried to stay quiet and listen, distract himself with the wall decorations or counting the ceiling tiles and trying not to suffocate under the overpowering aroma. But, of course, the matchmaker continues to make unsubtle comments about _selecting wisely_ and _not settling for the first tomcat who scratches at the door_. He’s beginning to lose his sense of humor with the whole situation. Clearly, this woman doesn’t believe he’s there for her protection and supervision; she’s already convinced herself that he and Anastazia are, to use the street phrase, “an item”. And, naturally, it’s her civic duty to show the poor, misguided girl the error of her ways.

Forty-five minutes into the appointment, when the matchmaker starts setting out profiles of potential candidates, he proceeds to make things worse. While glancing over some of the pictures lined across the coffee table, he recognizes one as a distant but unfortunate relation, and then speaks before he remembers to keep his mouth shut.

“That one’s been arrested too many times.”

Anastazia, previously keeping herself busy by examining her nails, blinks and looks at him; the matchmaker does as well, with a frosty glare. “I conduct background checks myself, young man.” She sniffs tightly, wrinkling her nose in the process. “And I will not allow small infractions to interfere with my clients obtaining a proper marriage.”

“Small infractions?” he repeats, again speaking before thinking, but between the way this woman is regarding him like a piece of dirt under her fingernails and the way she’s putting criminals out as potential husbands for Anastazia, he’s not about to take that lying down. “With all due respect, Ma’am, I can personally attest to the charges for which he’s been arrested, including but not limited to drug trafficking, extortion, and conspiracy to commit murder. I think those are a little more than _small infractions_.”

“And you can _personally attest_ to this, can you?”

“If Kyle says he can personally attest to the man’s criminal record,” Anastazia leans forward and sets her hand over his in a strangely protective way, glares at the older woman, and he’s left forcing back a strange trickle of warmth creeping up his spine at the way she just said his name, “then he can personally attest to the damn record. And I think Daddy would be very interested to know you’re trying to hitch me to someone who’s so sloppy in his criminal activity that he carries such an impressive resume with the system.”

“Young lady—”

“As for the rest of them,” she continues, releasing his hand to look through the other profiles, “Too old,” she tosses aside two, “too young,” three more, “and this one, definitely not.” She turns, looking at him, and holds out the picture, “Tell me someone other than a pimp in a Southern whorehouse dresses like that.”

He bites back a responsive smirk and ducks his head to the side for a minute. The elder woman is fuming, and he’s almost waiting for steam to start curling out of her ears. “Perhaps, Miss Darbinyan,” she says at length, her jaw locked again and eyes narrowed to slits, “you might stop attracting men who prefer whores if you ceased dressing like one.”

“Perhaps.” Anastazia nods, with a calm nod and steady eyes; he’s rather surprised at her composure, especially when he was waiting for her lash out. “Or perhaps it is simply my lot in life, not only to attract lesser men but also have them laid at my feet by a professional who is being paid for results. Paid quite a lot, actually, and I daresay Daddy is getting tired of paying without productivity.”

It takes a minute, but then he hears it: the cool threat, the glint of a knife’s edge, lingering on the edge of her words, at the tip of her tongue, in the brief flash of her eyes. Eloquent, smooth, nearly inaudible, but it’s there and it takes him by surprise. And then surprise becomes awe, and intrigue, because he’s never actually heard anyone weave a threat so subtly into their words. It is a little…inspiring. More than a little, actually. It produces the sudden and overwhelming urge to grab her hand again, pull her close, and kiss her.

He kicks himself, literally, and forces the image away. There is no surer way to end his employment with this family than to start having those kind of fantasies. Absolutely inappropriate.

With lips so tight and thin they’re practically non-existent, the matchmaker stands, smoothing out her skirts and bodice, and releases a sharp exhale. “I will be back shortly.” She says, voice as tight as her expression. “Stay put until then, if you would be so inclined.”

Anastazia watches as the woman steps around the corner, and then with a fluid motion, hoists herself out of the armchair. “Consider me disinclined.” She states, not to anyone in particular, and then jerks her head at him. “We’re gone.”

“Miss Darbinyan,” he sighs, heavily, but nevertheless stands and follows her out the door, “your father asked you to stay put for the meeting.”

“I know.” she says, slipping sunglasses over her eyes and climbing onto the motorcycle; the engine starts up and he knows if he doesn’t follow her lead in the next five seconds, she’ll leave him on the sidewalk—which, of course, would probably be much safer and less detrimental to his physical health. “There are lots of things Daddy asks me to do, and lots of places he asks me to _stay put_ at. I ask you now, do you really think I care?”

The answer is obvious. He sighs again, locks his arms around her waist, and holds tight as she peels out of the parking lot and weaves her way into traffic. Oncoming traffic, that is. 

The “One Way” street signs don’t seem to make much of a difference, nor do the blaring car horns coming her way. Apparently, she wants to go this way instead of that way, and the dozens of moving vehicles already on the street are just trivial inconveniences. He has the urge to close his eyes, because it seems rather presumptuous to look Death in the eye as it’s coming towards you, but ultimately decides against it. He wants to see which car will be the one that kills him.

After the tenth person shouts obscenities at them—well, mainly her, but he is riding with her, so by default, he also gets it—he finally breaks the silence. “Why do you do this?”

“Do what?” she yells out, over the engine’s roar and the latest car horn.

“ _This_ ,” he replies, at the same level, “all of this. Why?”

She turns her head to look at him with a smirk, which he really wishes she wouldn’t, because that takes her eyes off the road and there’s a fully loaded, very large, semi-truck approaching them, very quickly. “Why not?”

The truck’s horn halfway deafens him, and at the point he’s looking into its grill, he finally closes his eyes and waits for the inevitable impact. Not quite how he ever envisioned going out—it’s going to be very messy and about as unglamorous as one can get—but at least he’ll make the six o’clock news for a week or so.

But…he counts ten seconds, and no crash, no impact, no body parts scattered across the roadside. The driver lays on the horn for another fifteen seconds, and he might need surgery to get his hearing back, but there’s only the wind in his face as the bike makes a sharp left at the last possible second. Then, bump, bump, and when he slowly pries his eyelids open again, they’ve crossed the median and are on the other side of the road, traveling with the normal flow of traffic, intact and safe. Anastazia looks completely undisturbed, relaxed and at ease, and takes them back to the mansion without further incident. 

This time, when she parks the bike and dismounts, he does kiss the driveway. Twice.

***

The one saving grace for this whole day is that Araz and his top lieutenants are out at a business dinner all night. The house is essentially empty, save for some of the staff, and he won’t have to overhear the lecture from father to daughter about how irresponsible and reckless her behavior is, and he might not have to endure any comments about his continued inability to keep her in one place for longer than five minutes. Though, in his own defense, his job is to keep her safe and keep an eye on her. The whole “make her stay put” thing wasn’t explicitly laid out in his employee contract.

Around midnight, Araz still isn’t home, and he begins to wonder just what all is entailed in this “business dinner”. Then he decides it doesn’t matter, it’s not his business, and he is probably happier not knowing.

He’s collapsed on the small couch in Anastazia’s room, staring up at the ceiling while she’s in the bathroom, contemplating how many near-death experiences he’s now had in the last month, and then his mind starts calculating all the possible futures ones to come. At the rate he’s going, if the stars align properly and nothing too drastic happens, he might make it to his next birthday. After that, he’s not sure he’ll _want_ to live another year even if he could survive it.

When the bathroom door opens, the last thing he’s expecting to see is her in a dark blue bikini, and the last thing he’s expecting her to do is stroll out of the bedroom without a care or concern. Out of habit, he follows, calling after her the entire time and, as usual, being ignored. She makes a straight path to the back of the house and promptly dives into the swimming pool.

As he comes to stand carefully near the edge, she resurfaces, blinking a few times to get the water out her eyes. He rolls his eyes upward, then drops them back down to her. “Really?”

“What?” she asks, almost innocently, “It’s a perfectly good time to take a swim.” She treads water for a bit, then gestures back towards the house. “Go get a suit. Join me.”

“ _What_?” he can’t quite tell if she’s teasing again or not; he suspects not, because her expression is actually quite serious for a change. “No, I am not going to get a suit and join you.”

“Please?”

“ _No_.”

She tilts her head and lifts her eyebrows, the usual expression when she’s exasperated or wanting to make him feel like he’s overreacting. “Honestly, Nimbus, you really need to live a little.”

“ _Live a little_?” He repeats the words with his own exasperation hanging off every one. “Miss Darbinyan, I do more _living_ with you on a daily basis than most people will do in their lifetime. Now,” he obliges to make the necessary pleading expression, with accompanying hand gestures, “will you please get out of the pool and come inside? I need to collapse on your couch and not move for at least three hours.”

He’s actually waiting for additional protests, or comments about how childish he is acting, or that she isn’t really _that bad_ when, yes, she _is_ that bad, and he is having no trouble understanding how and why so many poor souls dropped out of this job assignment. He even wonders how many still consider themselves remotely sane.

But, no protests, no snarky commentary, just a quiet sigh, and she drifts back to the pool edge. “Fine,” she says, reaching up for him, “Help me out?”

In retrospect, he really should have known better. He shouldn’t have let himself feel relief, and think he finally got her to listen and abide by his request, and he definitely shouldn’t have reached out and taken her hand without a solid, immovable anchor in the other hand.

But he didn’t.

It takes a little effort on her part, but once she utilizes the other hand and gets leverage with her feet, a well-placed tug sends him toppling over the edge and directly into the pool with an almighty splash. He can hear her laugh above the surface, distorted by the water in his ears, but once he kicks himself back up and emerges, it becomes far more audible. The worst part of all, especially given the circumstances, is that she has a beautiful laugh. It’s not the simpering little giggles or obnoxiously loud chortles that he’s heard from various women throughout his life. It’s a vibrant, delighted sound; infectious and contagious, and he almost feels his mouth twitching up in a responsive gesture before he bites it back and remembers why he has no reason to be laughing.

“Hilarious.” He says, coughing out the bit of chlorine water he managed to swallow. “Absolutely hilarious. Laugh it up.”

She’s still giggling, while pushing herself up onto the edge with grace and without any assistance, and wipes what he suspects are tears of laughter from each eye. “Oh, you should have seen your face…”

He drapes himself over the edge, breathing slowly, and then props his chin on one arm. “You do know there are better ways to get rid of me than this, right?”

His comment stops her amusement, dead in its tracks. “Get rid of you?”

“Between the near-death experiences, trying to drown me, and, let us not forget, giving your father plenty of reasons to either fire me or send me out with the trash.” He shakes his head, getting rid a few clinging droplets, and sighs heavily. “Take your pick.”

She actually pauses for a moment, studies him carefully, intently, and then slowly stands up and walks the short distance to stand in front of him. His mind is determined to still be irritated and a little frustrated, but his eyes are traitors and take a moment to run over her shape, tracing a few of the water drops trickling down her skin, noting the soft curves and graceful forms with more interest than he should. Her voice is a much needed interruption, before he started staring longer and with more attention.

“Reality check, Nimbus.” Anastazia says, kneeling down, hands folded atop her thighs. “I’m not trying to get rid of you. I’m trying to find you again.”

It takes him a second to think that one through, but it still doesn’t make any real sense, and so he’s left to huff out a breath and lift an eyebrow. “What?”

“I’m trying to find you.” She says, tone uncommonly serious and her gaze suddenly very intense, brown eyes clear and glittering in the poolside lamps. “The man I saw in the mall, that day. The one who threw caution to the wind and stayed by my side the entire time. The one who protected me and followed my lead even when it was completely insane. The one with the sharp, clear gaze. The one who flew with me and felt freedom and liked it.”

She leans a little closer, lips curving into a delicate smile. “You let me see bits and pieces of the real you, Kyle Nimbus, and I like what I see. I like it quite a bit. But then he goes away, and I’m left trying to find new ways and opportunities to bring him back. Even today, I saw him again—a man who doesn’t back down when he’s challenged and holds his own with dry wit and a sharp tongue. The Clyde to my Bonnie.”

He really should be backing away, because she’s very close and boundaries and personal space and…and he shifts closer, propping on his elbows, and lifts his eyebrows a bit higher. She notes the gesture accordingly and her smiles widens. 

“I know you like me, Kyle.” It’s a near miss, but he manages to shut down the tremor from wracking his limbs before it becomes apparent how deeply it affects him, to hear her say his name. “I know you like me a lot. So be my Clyde, let me be your Bonnie, and let’s live. Live with me. Life’s too short not to.”

Her hands both reach out for him, the same helpful gesture as before, but this time she actually looks as though she means it and won’t drop him back in the water. He returns the gesture, wraps his fingers around her wrists, and jerks himself backwards. No warning, no hint of his intentions, save for the broad smirk he gave her half a second before pulling her back into the pool.

When she surfaces, her hair is a dark, wet curtain obscuring half her face, and as she pushes both hands through it, her grin is wicked and her eyes are gleaming. “You want to play that way?” she asks, though it’s not really a question, and he knows the matching smirk on his face is enough of an answer. “Let’s play, Nimbus.”

It really is better that Araz isn’t home, and the staff knows better than to poke and pry and ask questions when they hears soft shouts and delighted cries coming from the pool, and the consistent splashing of water that’s making a complete mess along the edges and will probably take an hour to clean up in the morning. Not to mention that his clothes are going to be ruined, and he should have gotten the suit.

But what would be the fun in that?

“Woman,” he says, later, when they’re back in her bedroom and each one has taken a turn in the shower and he’s seated on the edge of her bed in fresh clothes while she emerges from the bathroom, toweling off her wet hair, “you’re crazy.”

“I know.” she smiles at him; the towel is draped a safe distance from her fireplace, where flames are crackling merrily in the hearth, and she slips onto the bed in a pair of shorts and sleeveless top. He has a feeling this is far more an intimate image of her than he should have, but he isn’t really inclined to leave right now. “But you keep coming along with me, so I’d daresay you’re not so sane yourself.”

“I won’t by the time you’re done with me.”

“You make that sound like a bad thing.” Her lips form a little pout, but her eyes are still dancing with mischief. He’s seen that look before, among others that share a similar meaning. He likes that look, and the others. He likes them quite a bit.

“Maybe it’s not.” He shifts a little, folding one leg against the other and turning to face her better. And, really, maybe it isn’t. _Live with me_ …that doesn’t sound like a terrible thing. If he’s going to survive in this job, with her, being a serious, by-the-book kind of guy probably won’t cut it. And, in ways that genuinely make him question his sanity, as it stands right now, he does like her. He really does. She’s wild and crazy and out of control and definitely insane, but he likes her.

The pout gives way to that pretty little smile she sometimes wears, though he’s noticed it’s only with him. Never with her father or any of the others…just him. And then she unwraps her legs and crawls along the bedcovers toward him. “You know,” she says, arching one eyebrow, “today is your one-month anniversary.”

“Indeed.” He nods. “And you didn’t even get me a present.”

Now, both eyebrows arch, and she settles right beside him, leg brushing leg. “Says who?” she murmurs, tilting her head a little. “After all, your anniversary didn’t technically start until two in the morning, remember?”

_Oh, right._ And, wouldn’t you know it, the clock chimes the marked hour only a few seconds later. He’s lasted four weeks, a whole month, and now he realizes she hasn’t actually been trying to oust him or toss him aside like the rest. She likes him. She…actually…she actually likes him. 

He’s suddenly not sure if that’s really a good thing or if it’s something he should be concerned about. After all, _I like you_ means lots of things. There’s the _I like you_ from one little girl to one little boy, that often involves the exchange of plucked dandelions and shy notes in class. There’s the _I like you_ from high school boy to high school girl, both dancing around the bush and trying to actually ask if she would like to go to the dance with him, without so many words.

An _I like you_ from this woman, in particular, probably isn’t found under the traditional types. Nothing about her is traditional or normal or anything in between. She makes her own rules, and any meaning to her words is probably unique to her and—

“What…are you doing?” he asks, mouth suddenly feeling very dry when her hand slips up his arm and curls around his cheek, and she leans a little closer. At his question, she pauses, quirks her eyebrow again, and gives him the look.

“What did you think _I like you_ meant, Kyle?” she asks; his name again, and this time the tremor won’t be clamped down. “I’m inspired by your sunny disposition?”

Oh. _Oh, no._ About fifteen different responses hit him all at once, muddled and mingled together and he can’t make sense of which one is the right one and which one will get him into more trouble, and then it doesn’t matter, because her mouth is on his and she’s kissing him. Her lips are soft and smooth and she’s very warm and this is so many different levels of wrong and it’s completely inappropriate and that’s exactly what he should be telling her while pulling away and making a rapid exit from her room.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he does the exact opposite of what he should do, and tilts his head, slides both hands into her hair, and returns the kiss. There’s an upward lift to her mouth that he can’t quite read—smile or smirk or something in between—and then she shifts a little closer and they kiss again, and again, and again…

This is way too fast, way too much, and damned if it doesn’t feel good.

When she pulls back, just enough that they can meet each other’s gaze, her smile is back. He realizes, silently, this might actually be the first time he’s seen her look legitimately happy. Not mischievous delight, not wicked amusement, but happy. It’s a good look on her, but he almost thinks he prefers the wild gleam in her eyes and the devil’s smile on an angel’s face.

“Happy Anniversary, Kyle.”


End file.
